


no such thing as pretend

by stellark



Category: Pentagon (Korea Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Office, Crack, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Slow Burn, cube is now a fashion magazine, fashion designer!changgu, photographer!hongseok, why's yanan a tea addict in all of my fics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-08-20 22:55:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16564712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellark/pseuds/stellark
Summary: Okay, maybe Changgu's personal opinion of Hongseok is that the man is stuck up, arrogant, and conceited, and his work is mediocre at best. But the international communitylovesHongseok's photography. And for a chance to have Changgu's own work under that kind of spotlight, well, that's worth spending an uncomfortable hour playing along as Hongseok's boyfriend, right?





	1. one.

**Author's Note:**

> hello this is my contribution to the miserably tiny honggu tag
> 
> i love these two idiots nd i love fake dating aus so here's the messy output

It had been so stupid, really. But Hongseok supposes there’s nothing he can do about it now.

The event he’s referring to in particular is approximately thirteen minutes and twenty-eight seconds old, located in the break room on the third floor, behind Hwitaek’s precious coffee machine. His hand is still clutching his phone, the other one on his chest, his breathing shallow and rapid. He’s sure that the stunt he just pulled was a mistake. As in, he regrets everything he’s ever done, up until that point. As in, he’s actually, utterly, completely, fucked.

He drops his heads into his hands, taking care to avoid knocking over the machine with his elbow, struggles to draw in a breath. He feels a little dizzy, a little overreactive, and he tries to tell himself that it’s really not an issue. It’s a small problem, it’ll blow over by the end of the week.

That’s what he tries to tell himself, but things don’t go quite to plan.

#

“You did _what_?”

Hongseok grimaces, his hands gripping the edge of Shinwon’s desk as the owner gives him an incredulous gaze. He’s really not helping Hongseok’s whole _this isn’t really that big of a deal_ mindset.

“I finally told my parents I’m gay, all right? It was super spur-of-the-moment, but I can’t _stand_ those dates they send me on. The girls are great and all, but I’m not even into women. Oh god, what have I done? What have I-”

“You told them you’re _gay_?” 

“Yes, I did, and they literally don’t care. They just want me to be an adult with a stable job to get settled down with some other adult with a stable job, whatever gender that person may be. What they’ve been doing to get this to happen is set me up on these blind dates. The last one - what was her name, Jihyo? She spent half an hour crying to me about her ex, some dickhead that left her because apparently _he_ discovered he was gay, and had this whole _I’m so sorry but it’s really not your fault_ pity speech prepared for her, which she found open on his phone rather than actually hearing it. I don’t think she asked me for my name even once.”

Shinwon’s left eyebrow is raised, his expression one of textbook disbelief. He’s fully aware of Hongseok’s weekly torture sessions that are his parents forcing him to meet whatever girl anywhere close to his age, having been subject to long complaining about said sessions. He decides that apparently, Hongseok’s mid-life crisis isn’t worth his time and returns his attention to his computer screen. Hongseok sort of wants to punch him, regretting, not for the first time, that Shinwon is his designated _best friend_ in the entirety of this office.

“So, what now? You’re out, they support you, no more blind dates. Happy?”

“Also - I kind of told them I already have a boyfriend.”

Shinwon’s hands cradle his head, and there’s silence for a long moment. It’s punctuated by a pained sigh.

“You’re hopeless, you know that?” he asks, to which Hongseok mutters a half-hearted “thanks”.

“What are you gonna do? Hook up with some random dude from the internet? Pay someone to be your pretend boyfriend?”

“I would _never_ descend that low and I’m offended you could even fathom that. It’s not hard, I just need - Shinwon, wanna be my boyfriend for a week?” Hongseok is definitely descending this low.

Shinwon instantly spins around in his swivel chair and fixes him with a cold glare. “Firstly, just because I myself am gay does not mean that I am in any way into you. Secondly, I go home with a headache eight out of seven days a week after dealing with you during work hours alone. Thirdly, I’m not into you. Don’t flatter yourself.”

“You said that first one twice,” Hongseok mutters, and Shinwon’s fingers clack on his keyboard in response. 

“Find someone else to pretend date,” he says, after a moment of pity. “I’m sure it won’t be hard; your looks may not measure up to mine but they’re at the very least subpar. Maybe Jinho or something, I don’t know.”

“Jinho? As in, Jo Jinho, head of the editorial department? You want me to ask him to pretend date me?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Remember that time I pretended to be his boyfriend while drunk ‘cause some asshole was hitting on him? Remember that time he very calmly told me, ‘I’m not interested’ right afterwards? Fuck, man, he’s not even gay, is he?”

Shinwon fucking _smirks_ , Hongseok fights to urge to punch him right on his painfully high, defined cheekbone. 

“He’s actually very, very gay. You can’t assume that just because he’s not attracted to _you_ means he isn’t attracted to guys in general.”

“Oh,” Hongseok murmurs, his cheeks reddening. He’ll make mental note of that the next time he tries to beg Jinho to invest a little more in his photo editing softwares. 

“Jinho’s a no, I’m definitely a no, and sketchy guys on the internet are probably no’s as well. Well, what’re you gonna do?”

“I’ll find someone,” Hongseok says determinedly. “I have until the end of this week, then my parents want to meet this mysterious boyfriend of mine.”

“Try anybody in this office,” Shinwon says, and Hongseok lights up. “We’re not terrible people. Except maybe Yanan, Yanan’s a terrible person.”

“I’ve only been here for two weeks,” Hongseok says, crestfallen. “I barely know _anybody_. How do I get someone to pretend date me?”

Hongseok gives Shinwon his classic puppy-eyed stare, lips pouted and eyes big and watery. He’s nowhere close to crying, but his tear ducts work in magical ways, mostly to his will. Shinwon gives a resolved sigh.

“Twenty thousand won, and I’ll find you a fake boyfriend.”

“Fifteen thousand.”

“Thirty.”

“Deal.”

#

Changgu thinks that, as a fully functioning member of society, a few years out of university and pursuing his dream career, he should have left all stupid, cliche plot lines of bad dramas, with the alcohol and endless parties and random Friday night hook-ups, behind him.

He’s fairly convinced that he’s done a good job so far. He’s secured a small apartment, nothing fancy but big enough to house him and all his necessities, that being a single Russian blue cat he absolutely adores. Her name is Chloe and she’s an absolute brat of a feline; constantly demanding attention and food, often both. Apart from her fur the apartment is rather bare, a single bedroom and sparse furniture and drab grey walls, but it suits him just fine.

Apart from that, Yeo Changgu has a university degree and a job tucked under his belt. That is, if he ever wears a belt to work. Even as a fashion designer he never finds the motivation to don anything more than sweaters and jeans to the office everyday. After all, he’s not that one wearing the clothes. He’s just designing them.

Cube Style is a nice place to work, to say the least. It’s busy, as one of Seoul’s top fashion magazines, and it’s quaint and has its own flair to the workplace and its products. This means an entire colour scheme to each room (Changgu’s own workplace, which he shares with Yanan and Hyojong, is coral, mint, and gold, which he complains to Hyojong about looking not unlike a preteen girl’s), a ping-pong table in the break room and a different, eccentric chandelier in every single room, all sparkly glass and shimmering shadows and ridiculously expensive. Changgu doesn’t hate his co-workers, per say, but they’re definitely not the easiest people to work with. 

Exhibit A: the current argument he’s having with Yanan over the type of seam he should be using.

“This isn’t strong enough at all,” Yanan says, glaring at the three-dimensional figure Changgu’s conjured up on his computer screen. “The fabric here is so tight, you think this flat-felled seam is going to hold it up?”

Changgu groans and shuffles over to let Yanan take control. The Chinese man quickly changes the type of stitch that Changgu spent a solid thirty minutes selecting, rotating the image so he can see it from all angles. Yanan’s their newest employee, straight from China after dominating the industry with his expertise as a model, stylist _and_ graphic designer, earning himself an internationally renowned reputation as Shanghai’s Prince. Hwitaek had spent weeks agonizing over whether or not he’d accept the offer to work with the rest of them at Cube, knowing there’s probably other options that are much more sophisticated and high-paying, especially for someone with expertise in so many areas. Sometimes Changgu feels a little talentless next to him. Then he reminds himself that Yanan once pulled down his pants on national television to show off his underwear, and that calms him a little.

“I don’t think that makes any difference,” Changgu frowns. “It’ll still withstand the pressure of the zip I want to attach there.”

“Yes, but this one’s just _better_ ,” Yanan insists, and Changgu raises his hands in defeat. Yanan smiles cheekily and flops back into his own chair, his criminally long legs stretching out in front of him. For someone whose photoshoots have appeared on covers of countless magazines, his posture is awful, his shoulders slouched and and neck tilted at a weird angle.

Changgu returns back to his work, silently glad that Hyojong isn’t here to contribute anything to the conversation. Yanan alone makes his temples throb.

It’s after half an hour, once Yanan’s left the room _seven times_ for snack breaks and still managed to accomplish more than him, finishing the layout for the content section, and Changgu begrudgingly admits that Yanan’s choice of seam is in fact a better idea than his original candidate, that Shinwon barges in and disturbs a lot of things.

The first of those being the sudden productive spell Changgu’s fallen under, rapidly keeping up his working pace with Yanan’s unexplainably efficient one. The second of those is Yanan’s Chinese drama that he couldn’t bother to watch with earbuds, so he’s blasting a hysterical mix of Mandarin and swearing into the air. The last of which is Changgu’s mouse, which, when he’s startled by Shinwon’s sudden entrance, dislodges itself from his grip and drops to the floor, cracking upon impact.

“No!” he screams, falling to his knees besides the remains of his only friend in the room. Shinwon pays him no attention, his eyes transfixed on the screen of Yanan’s drama.

“Is Ying finally confronting her boyfriend?” he asks, and Yanan nods excitedly. 

“It’s so good - she even bitch slapped him. God, I fucking love her.”

“It took her three season to confront this dickhead, why would you even - “

“Are you _done_?” Changgu calls obnoxiously, the broken plastic pieces of his mouth clutched tighty in his hands. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the only one getting work done around here.”

“You are,” Yanan replies nonchalantly, and Changgu scoffs. 

“Shit, sorry - Ggu, I need to ask you something,” Shinwon says, striding over to him and grabbing him by the arm. Changgu really hates how every model in this office has such long legs. Well - they’re models. The plastic is jerked out of his grip, and he almost cries at the sight of the faithful mouse lying on the vividly green carpet. 

“Hey - wait - my mouse!” he screams, as Shinwon starts to haul him bodily out of the room. Yanan ignores him entirely. “Yananie, my mouse - _mmph_!”

Once they’re outside in the hallway and the door is shut, Shinwon releases Changgu’s arm. He snatches it back defiantly, rubbing the sore skin. Shinwon may have some of the smallest hands you’d expect from his broad shoulders, but they grip _tight_. 

“You need to pretend to be Hongseok’s boyfriend.”

_“What?”_

“Be. Hongseok’s. Boyfriend,” Shinwon repeats slowly, as if Changgu’s the delusional one. 

“I heard you - but _what_?”

“If you heard me, why are you asking me to repeat myself? Hongseok, the new photographer? He needs someone to be his -”

“Hold the fuck up,” Changgu cuts in, his hands thrown up in surrender. “You said Hongseok? As in Yang Hongseok, that asshole who walked in here two weeks ago and acts like he owns this damn office? That Yang Hongseok?”

“Yes, that’s the Yang Hongseok,” Shinwon confirms, slightly incredulous. “What about him?”

“No,” Changgu says immediately. “Tell him to go fuck himself. I’m not - I won’t - he has to ask someone else.”

“What do you have against him?” Shinwon pesters, sounding genuinely curious.

Changgu crosses his arms, his brow pinched. “Maybe it’s because Hwitaek lets him do the shoot for the front cover even though he’s basically an iPhone photographer? And his lighting is all off, his backdrops are shit and his editing made Yanan look like some sort of Godzilla? You’re asking me why I hate Yang Hongseok?”

“He’s gotten offers from dozens of companies asking for his presets and editing. They sell at over hundreds each, he’s even published a photography book, for fuck’s sake. In _English_ , Changgu, you think this guy doesn’t know what he’s doing?”

“Mistakes,” Changgu says firmly. To him, this conversation is already over. “I don’t know why half his shit sells. It’s all just - “

“Plus, he said he’d cover the shots for your next winter collection.”

“- photographical genius. Clearly his presets aren’t selling for enough; man, have you seen them?”

Okay, so maybe Changgu thinks Hongseok’s photos are utter crap. Maybe he thinks that his lighting choices make the model’s nose bridge too high and their features too vague, that his backdrops always juxtapose horribly against whatever clothing he’s capturing with the flash of his lens, that his angles are all wrong and he couldn’t edit a photo to save his life. But that’s not what the international community thinks. They _love_ Yang Hongseok’s photography. And the chance to get his collection framed by allegedly one of the most talented people ever to hold a camera, well, who is he to turn down an offer?

The corners of Shinwon’s lips turn up. “I’ll let him know you agreed.”

_Well, shit._


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yang Hongseok might be a man of few faces, but he plays fucking dirty.

Changgu has to remind himself, for the thousandth time, that violence is never the solution to your problems as he meets Hongseok to start this entire shit show.

“Finally,” Changgu says, when he finally sees Hongseok round the corner. He’s four and a half minutes late, and it ticks Changgu off to no ends. Worse, he’s wearing just a loose sweatshirt and ripped jeans, when Changgu even bothered to dress up for the occasion, decked out in black ironed slacks and a navy blue button down. He _is_ a fashion designer, he needs to play his role. 

Hongseok doesn’t look affected in the least, showing his one hand into his pocket and the other against the elevator button, ignoring the fact that it’s already lit.

“How long are we doing this for?”

Hongseok has the audacity to cock an eyebrow questioningly.

“Doing what?”

“Me being your boyfriend.”

“Oh,” Hongseok says shortly. It’s fucking annoying, _he’s_ fucking annoying, and he makes Changgu want to slap him. “Just meet my parents for lunch. That’s literally it. Answer their questions, smile, be a boyfriend.”

He says it all so casually, but it brings heat to the tips of Changgu’s ears as they wait for the elevator together. It’s not like he has any experience in relationships. Well, that’s a minor detail they can gloss over. At its worse, it’s Hongseok who will take the consequences.

The ride down the elevator is tense, Changgu pressing his back to the wall farthest from Hongseok as they descend. When the doors open with a ding, Hongseok turns to him again.

“Stay calm,” he instructs. Changgu wants to explode; he’s _so_ calm right now, why does Hongseok always have to act like he knows everything? “Don’t screw up. And - here -”

He stretches out his hand, blissfully oblivious to the way Changgu is putting the maximum amount of space between them. Changgu stares at it like Hongseok’s just offered him a pistol.

“What?”

Hongseok rolls his eyes. “We’re a couple, idiot. We need to hold hands, and do, you know, couple stuff.”

“I am _not_ kissing you in front of your parents. I am not kissing you _at all.”_

For the briefest of moments, Hongseok’s collected expression morphs into a different one. But it returns just as quickly as it had disappeared, like a shadow flitting across the seats of a moving car, making Changgu wonder if he’d really seen it at all.

“Good,” he says curtly. “Now hold my fucking hand. I don’t have a taser hiding in my palm.”

“I don’t want to,” Changgu says stubbornly. To make his point extra clear, and to piss Hongseok off a little more, he crosses his arms across his chest, huffing like a child. He can feel Hongseok’s temper rise, it makes him fight down a smirk.

“For fuck’s sake - look, your winter collection.”

That’s not fair. That’s not fair at all. Yang Hongseok might be a man of few faces, but he plays fucking dirty.

Reluctantly, Changgu grasps Hongseok’s hand, holding as loosely as possible. It’s awkward - Hongseok’s fingers are too long and Changgu’s too slender, so he lets their fingertips dangle from the faintest of holds, barely on one another. If he so much as shifted they would disconnect. 

Good. He likes it that way. Hongseok’s hands are gross - callused from the thousands of barbells he pumps on a weekly basis. Apparently he’s never heard of hand lotion, either. Changgu forces air in and out of his nostrils, reminding himself that consumers love Hongseok’s photography, and, by extension, Changgu’s upcoming winter collection.

Mr and Mrs Yang are waiting in the hallway when they step out. Changgu gives them a quick once-over; Mrs Yang is tall and elegant, impeccable makeup, stylish hair. It’s possible that she’s well into middle aged but she glows with the artificial youth you can find in the bottoms of makeup palettes. Changgu’s spent enough time with Hyunggu to know. When her gaze trails over Changgu, he shivers a little. Her eyes are sharp and challenging; even more cat-like with the thin black wings. They remind him of Chloe, how she looks when Changgu takes out the bag of catfood as quietly as he can as to avoid her pouncing on him.

Mr Yang is even taller than his wife. Changgu didn’t think it was possible for someone to look so intimidating juxtaposed to Hongseok, but there he is, in a full, tailored suit that makes his legs look taller than Changgu’s neck, hair gelled back slickly. 

“Mom, Dad, this is my boyfriend, Changgu,” Hongseok says, and there’s a nervous edge to his voice that Changgu’s never heard before. Hongseok’s hand is getting slick against his own; Changgu resists the urge to pull away and wipe it on his pants.

There’s a moment of apprehension as Changgu is analyzed from head to toe by Hongseok’s parents, feeling strangely naked before them. 

“This is...Changgu?” Mrs Yang asks, her gaze sharp and cat-like, lingering almost too long at the way their hands are uncomfortably linked. He almost shivers at how unfamiliar his name sounds on her tongue. “ _This_ is the man you’re dating?”

“Yes, Mom, he is,” Hongseok says. He sounds like he’s speaking through gritted teeth. The response Mrs Yang gives them, a sharp arch of one perfectly pencilled brow, bears an uncanny resemblance to the expression Hongseok often wears.

“Let’s not be long,” Mr Yang interrupts, stepping forward to shake Changgu’s free hand. His shoulder almost pops out of its socket from the pure force of the man’s handshake. “I’d love to know more about Changgu, and if he - I mean, you, really are as wonderful as Seokie says. I’m sure you are.”

“Give him a break, Dad,” Hongseok snaps. “There’s nothing wrong with Changgu. You’re being rude.”

Changgu gives him a tight-lipped smile at that, not failing to miss how agitated the atmosphere is. Hongseok’s hold on his hand tightens, just a little bit. He finds that it’s not as appalling as he thought it would be.

They walk together out of the office building, towards the parking lot, and out of all the cars that Yang Hongseok’s parents could own, _of course_ it’s the gleaming white limousine that takes up two entire spaces and looks like it cost more than Changgu’s yearly salary. Changgu stares at his shoes and tries to keep his breathing even, ignoring the way something is jumping in his chest, ping-ponging inside his ribcage.

There’s even a chauffeur, a man with plastic smiles and a practised “After you, madam” as Mrs Yang takes a prim step inside. Changgu follows, taking the opportunity to drop Hongseok’s hand inconspicuously and seat himself. The inside smells like leather and air freshener, a fresh and clean scent that shouldn’t bother Changgu, but he does. The whole thing feels too _formal_ , and even though he’s in one of his three good shirts he feels underdressed and underprepared for the sheer amount of luxury Hongseok’s family radiates.

On the ride to the restaurant, Changgu’s perched on the very edge of extremely posh seats. Him and Hongseok are on opposite sides of the backseat, the latter with his head against the window and not giving a single glance in Changgu’s direction. Fine. He likes it like that.

He takes a deep breath, two, three, lets the tension bleed out of his shoulders. Why’s he doing this again? One, because Ko Shinwon may be a lazy asshole around the office but he’s incredibly persuasive when he wants to be. Two, because Yang Hongseok is apparently such a miserable being that he needs to turn to a random coworker he’s barely spoken to in a crisis. Changgu can name at least three much more suitable options that work on the same floor alone. Jinho, maybe, but Jinho hates Hongseok. Yanan, except Yanan has no brain to mouth filter and would probably blurt something mortifying in the middle of this. Hyunggu, but it would be a crime, seeing as Hyunggu’s hopelessly infatuated with the intern he’s supposed to be mentoring, some Japanese guy with a terrifyingly low voice and an equally as low tolerance for Hyunggu’s shitty attempts at flirting. Okay, maybe there’s really no other options. 

He shoves Hongseok, Hongseok’s cold parents, and the feeling of Hongseok’s hand against his own into some dark corner of his mind, chasing them away with thoughts of sewing patterns and types of fabric and colour schemes.

#

“You work in for Cube Style? Here, in Seoul?”

To be frank, Changgu thinks that’s quite possibly the stupidest question he’s ever gotten about his employment, seeing as Mrs Yang just met them at his office. It beats out “Do you just...draw clothes, and stuff?” by a narrow margin, but they’re the ones paying a ridiculous amount of money for the _jabom de pâcques_ that he’s distractedly winding his fork through. It looks like dressed up lunch meat, and tastes like it too, but he swallows a mouthful just to put off answering them a little while longer.

“Yeah, I’m a designer. That means I get to create a lot of clothes, we get people to model those clothes, and they go into the magazine each month.”

“Changgu’s really good at it, Mom,” Hongseok pipes up, throwing Changgu off-guard. Sure, they’re supposed to be dating but that doesn’t mean Hongseok has to go and say dumb things like that, especially as Changgu feels his face crimson, hastily gulping water to hide it.

“I’m really not,” he counters, once he’s done choking down the water. “I just like to design clothes. Our models and photographers do the real work.”

“Seokie, you take photos for this company, right?” Mrs Yang asks, primly chewing and swallowing _tagliatelle avec bacon et gruyère_. Her table manners are impeccable; she dabs daintily at the corner of her mouth once she’s done, and places the napkin in its original position.

“Yeah,” Hongseok says, sounding a little brighter. “They’re great people, models and editors and designers like Changgu, I really like working here.”

“So, tell us how you two got together,” Mr Yang offers, in a weak attempt to diffuse the situation. 

Changgu’s stomach drops. He and Hongseok hadn’t thought of this at all. At most, this lunch was going to be a few questions and answers, a smile here and there, maybe the occasional couple-y thing, which Changgu had thankfully managed to avoid at all costs, with the exception of the holding hands. Now his parents want to know how’d they meet, _of course,_ why had they been so stupid as to not even think about setting up some sort of background?

“Met at work,” Hongseok starts uncertainly, and Changgu thinks that’s the most vague and stupid answer you could give, but he wouldn’t put anything above Hongseok. Mr Yang looks mildly interested, and Changgu supposes that while they’re doing this he might as well have some fun.

“Hongseok was going through our previous issue, and he said my work really caught his eye,” he says, beaming at Mr Yang. “He says it was _creative and innovative-”_

“Oh no, I only said your work caught my eye,” Hongseok growls, giving him a smile that looks more like a snarl, eyes challenging. “I don’t recall ever saying that it was creative or innovative or-”

“You _did,_ ” Changgu tells Mr Yang more than him. Hongseok exhales a frustrated whine. “He was just dying to photograph it. You even spoke to Hwitaek-”

“It caught my eye because I was confused if it belonged in such a renowned magazine,” Hongseok insists, and that hits Changgu a little too hard. He may not be the most talented person at their office, Yanan’s there to prove that, but he thinks his work is at least respectable. He blinks away the sting in his eyes - god _damn_ , Hongseok’s opinion means just as much to him as the napkin’s does - and speaks.

“That’s not what happened,” Changgu says, his throat a little tight. “He actually came up to me on the first day and begged if he could cover my next line.”

Hongseok stabs his meat angrily. “I never said that. I wanted to talk to Yuto and he barged up and asked me if I could photograph it.”

Out of all the things Changgu hates about Hongseok, near top of the list (it’s a very long list) is his refusal to get anything but his own way, whether it’s about the temperature of the coffee maker in the mornings or the entire colour scheme of the front cover of their September release. God knows how Hongseok, having been a member of the office for approximately three and a half days, managed to convince Kim Hyojong, out of all stubborn as fuck stubborn people, to revert from their customary currant-wine red border to a fuschia so vivid it was almost a crime to humanity once printed.

Then that issue totaled up almost double their normal sales. Hwitaek’s eyes had been saucer plates when he’d stormed past the doors so hard the hinges had almost torn off, screaming about Hongseok’s not only photographical but visual giftedness.

Now that he thinks about it, Changgu hates that about him too.

“It’s nice to see you two bicker like a real couple,” Mr Yang says, his eyes softening. Changgu sighs in relief. It’s going well, soon Hongseok’s parents will be satisfied and he’ll be out of here.

“Yes,” Hongseok says monotonously. “Bickering, like a real couple, haha.”

“Hongseok’s just stubborn,” Changgu seizes the opportunity. Hongseok’s left eye twitches, but he stays silent. “And he absolutely refuses to do anything. He had to ask Shinwon to ask me out, it was a whole mess.”

 _“Darling,”_ Hongseok forces out between gritted teeth. Changgu thinks he throws up in his mouth a little. “It’s not my fault Shinwon has a big ass - sorry, a big mouth-”

“Oh, but _sweetheart_ , that means you were so into me before you had even spoken to me,” Changgu says with a wicked grin. “No surprise, I am _extremely_ attractive.”

“Pookie bear, you’ve got the visuals of a deformed concrete block. God knows why my model-material face is dating you.” Changgu rolls his eyes in the practised manner that Yanan would be proud of.

“I work with models on a daily basis, honey bunches, you only wish you were at their level.” 

“Puh-lease, baby cakes, you know I could be signed as a model in an instant, if I wanted to.”

Mr Yang is beaming at them; it takes a weight off Changgu’s chest. He stuffs more meat into his mouth once the whole ordeal’s over, letting Hongseok take control of the rest of the situation.

#

The second Hongseok’s parents drive out of sight, Changgu shoves his palms against Hongseok’s (very solid) chest. Hongseok stumbles back, crashing into the wall of their office building.

“What the _fuck_ was that? You called me darling? Fucking _darling_?”

“Those were my parents, I had to suck up to them -”

“Sucking up doesn’t mean giving them tooth rottingly sweet pet names! They probably saw right through that, they definitely know we’re not an actual couple.”

“It doesn’t matter, as long as they don’t send me on any more dates, mission accomplished! Take it or leave it, sweet cheeks.”

Changgu hisses at Hongseok one last time before rounding on his heel, throwing open the doors and striding in without bothering to wait for Hongseok.

#

It’s Thursday morning when Changgu storms up to Hyunggu, brows pinched, hands fisted, eyes sparking. As expected, Hyunggu’s laptop is open not to whatever work he’s supposed to be doing, but to season three of _One Punch_. Changgu blames the influence of their newest intern, Woojin or Woohyun, whatever his name is. The kid probably isn’t old enough to drink and yet he towers over all of the staff, Changgu included. Even then, he’s loud and obnoxious and seems to fill up a whole room alongside the fact that he can reach the ceilings of most of them. 

“Kang. Hyung. Gu!”

Hyunggu slams his laptop shut with enough force to crack the screen and wheels around, bright smile plastered on his face like the tricky little devil that he is. “Yes, Changgu-ssi?”

Changgu shudders at the use of the honorific. “Firstly, don’t even call me that again. Secondly, what the hell is this?”

Changgu shoves a few papers onto Hyunggu’s desk. They’re printed copies of Hyunggu’s own work and they look like mug shots, because Hyunggu, and all his skill with a brush in his hands and powders and creams at his disposal, can’t take photos for shit. Shinwon’s face stares back at the both of them, his eyelids painted in a vibrant butterscotch shade, his lips lined with tacky mustard coloured gloss. Changgu gives him credit for working with what he had; his gaze is no less intense and expression no less characteristically modelesque but it can’t cover up the fact that Changgu’s eyes had watered from the sheer amount of neon that existed on this page when he first looked at it. 

Hyunggu stares back at him, unimpressed. “Last time I checked, _I’m_ the makeup artist here, Changgu-ssi.”

“ _Please_ stop calling me that. Hyunggu, I know you have a degree and whatnot, but why does Shinwon look like he transformed into a half-human, half-highlighter hybrid?”

“I was testing the products. We’re partnered with a friend of Jinho’s, working with her newest collection. Moonbyul, I think her name was. I wanted to use that look with your stuff, maybe, seeing as it’ll fit the theme-”

“What? _My_ stuff?”

Hyunggu looks at Changgu like he’s sprouted an extra head. At this rate, Changgu might need it, because his current one is about to explode.

“Hongseok said-” 

_Oh._ It all makes sense now.

“I don’t need to hear what Hongseok said,” Changgu snaps, sounding harsher than he intended but not regretting it. “Hyunggu, my theme is serenity. Arctic, sapphire, cerulean, all that jazz. It’s _winter_.”

Hyunggu shrugs, turning around to open back his laptop and resume his _One Punch_. “Ask Hongseok,” he tells Changgu over the sound of an anime girl’s screaming. 

Oh, Changgu will.

#

He’s about halfway to Hongseok’s office when he realizes he doesn’t know where Hongseok’s office is.

It’s not his fault, and it’s not that he never bothered to learn, but that’s exactly it. He slows down his angry strut - he does _not_ have an angry strut, but according to Shinwon, his back gets ramrod straight and his arms swing like a pendulum and it looks like he’s _shoved a stick up his ass_ , very eloquently put, thank you, Ko Shinwon, Changgu’s glad that seven years of modelling classes and a career built off walking down runways has taught you well.

It’s in front of Hwitaek’s office he pauses, raises a hand questioningly and wonders if it’s worth it to knock. He considers his choices, hand hovering in the air, an inch shy of the cinnamon coloured wood.

One, he gathers whatever courage that’s been blissfully absent whenever they have horror movie marathons and knocks, enters, asks Hwitaek where Hongseok’s office is and retreats with said information. There are two risks to this: firstly, Hwitaek is Hongseok’s number one fan. Changgu wouldn’t be surprised if he had a shrine dedicated to his honor somewhere. Secondly, Changgu risks looking like a complete idiot.

Two, returns to his desk, burns the ugly photos of Shinwon in flames the same colour as that glitter smeared across his cheeks, and forgets all about it. Then he fakes surprise when Hongseok shows up expecting the two extremely bold colour sets to match and he deals with things then.

Both options seem equally unpleasant. It’s lucky for him that he doesn’t have much time to make up his mind, because at that very moment the door flies open and rams into his face.

He stumbles back, hands flying up to cradle his stinging cheek, scattering the rest of his papers over the floor. The bubblegum pink walls turn a sort of ugly mahogany, blurs of colour and light and a lot of pain. Blood floods his mouth, the metallic taste bitter on his tongue, he feels it drip out the corner of his lips and down his chin. Dimly, his knees buckle and the floor comes closer.

“ _Shit_ \- Changgu, I’m sorry!”

 _Well_ , he thinks vaguely. _That’s not much help, is it?_

Hands grip his forearms and drive his limp body to the wall, pressing him against it in a way that would be very inappropriate for an office setting if his face wasn’t currently blooming purple, his bottom lip probably bitten through.

“Shit, Hwitaek,” the voice says again, and Changgu’s still dazed but he recognises that voice. Pearly grey hair swims into view, head currently turned as someone else comes up. “I - I didn’t know he was outside the door, oh my god he’s bleeding - “

At least Changgu managed to find Hongseok, to say the least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its not even 10 pm and here i am being productive wheeee
> 
> twt @dreamyeo 
> 
> comments and kudos are so loved!


	3. three.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and so the plot thickens

Changgu hates ice packs.

When he was a kid, he stubbornly refused to let a plastic bag of half melted ice anywhere near his bruises, choosing instead to let them turn ugly shades of greenish yellow and all sorts of colours that human skin shouldn’t be. It was stupid, yes, but he hated the idea of overloading a sensation onto his nerves until they became numb. 

Twenty or so years later and he still won’t let Hwitaek anywhere near him with one. He’s content to just sit and wait for the room to stop swaying and glare at anyone whose gaze lingers too long on his puffed up cheek. It’s hideous, he understands, but must they really?

There’s a few stains of brownish dried blood on his shirt, which is both gross and upsetting. It’s gross because blood, even his own, trickling out the corner of his mouth and past his lips, makes him squeamish. It’s upsetting because he really likes this shirt.

“Are you done moping?” comes Hwitaek’s ever patient voice. Changgu swears that he could wait for a snail to circle to globe without dropping his cheerful demeanour. It’s probably why the man is his boss. 

“I still don’t want an ice pack,” Changgu says, voice muffled because not only is half his face is swelled up but so is his lip. “I can wait.”

Hwitaek lets out the tiniest of exasperated sighs, a rare crack in his ever present calm. “It’s gonna get worse without one.”

“I don’t care.”

Hyojong chooses that moment to burst into the room with all the grace of a hurricane. “Who the fuck what the fuck happened who’s responsible who do I have to kill-”

“You don’t need to kill anybody, Hyojong,” Hwitaek cuts him off hurriedly. “I mean - please don’t.”

Hyojong’s wild eyes scan the room and that’s when they land on Changgu lying on the coach, flat on his back because otherwise the blood will flow to one side of his face and make it burn. “ _Ggu!_ Your face!”

“I’m aware.”

“What the _fuck_ happened?” Hyojong demands, turning on Hwitaek. He looks murderous on Changgu’s behalf, and Changgu’s sort of touched.

“A door,” is Hwitaek’s curt reply. His arms are crossed and expression stern, like he’s trying to be rational but Hyojong is making it extremely difficult. It’s really not a surprise; Hyojong’s eccentricness is something of folklore around the office.

“A _door_?” Hyojong screeches. “A fucking _door_? I thought he got in a fist fight or something! Hwitaek, do you see the state of him? I don’t even think Yuto could do that to someone, and he is _ripped_ , holy fuck-”

“It was Hongseok behind the door,” Hwitaek says, and Hyojong doesn’t look any less confused.

“Hongseok? We have a Hongseok here? I don’t know a -” Hyojong’s face clears instantaneously. “Oh shit, Changgu, that looks really bad.”

“Wait - what?” Changgu asks. Hyojong looks almost pityingly. “What about Yang Hongseok? He’s a fucking asshole, doesn’t look behind doors-”

“Changgu,” Hwitaek and Hyojong say simultaneously, except Hyojong sounds exasperated and Hwitaek like a patronizing parent. Both of them glare at each other.

“Let’s put it this way,” Hyojong says slowly, as if he’s choosing his words carefully. “If you think Adachi Yuto is ripped, well, Yang Hongseok is shredded. Like, torn-to-pieces, paper-milled, hole-punched, stapled, doused in gasoline and lit up in flames, shredded. It’s a miracle you’re still alive, if he was behind that door.”

“Hyojong,” Hwitaek admonishes. “It’s not like-”

“He’s a muscle man!” Hyojong shrieks, his eyes bugging out. “He deadass moved all his equipment here by himself. The elevator was broken, so he carried fifty kilos up three flights of stairs. He wasn’t even out of breath. Legend has it that he can kill someone with a single touch-”

“Sometimes I ask myself what Wooseok’s doing around here, other than showing all of my staff too much anime during work hours,” Hwitaek says shortly. Hyojong doesn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed.

“Kid’s got good taste,” he mutters. Then he mumbles under his breath in what sounds like a string of Japanese swear words.

“Clearly _both_ my interns have terrible influences on my staff.”

“They’re good kids!”

“We have a magazine to publish!”

“I hear _kimi no wa na_ calling my name!” and with that, Hyojong is gone.

Changgu gives Hwitaek a moment to recover before asking, “What’s up with Hongseok and like, everybody?”

Hwitaek just gives him a tired glance, rubbing at his temples. “What about him?”

“Everyone thinks he’s some sort of god, or something. He’s just a photographer.”

“He’s one of the world’s best, actually.”

“He’s just another employee. I don’t get why everyone is so obsessed with him. The last time we had this kind of epidemic was when Yanan first joined us.” Changgu shudders at the memory. 

“He’s good. He’s a genius.”

“I’ve met his parents; they’re loaded. Hongseok is just a spoiled little -”

“I’m a what, now?”

_Speak of the devil._

Hongseok flicks open the door and pokes his head in, his expression ever one of arched brow skeptiscism. Apart from his normally styled grey hair a little dishevelled, he looks about the same as always; full of himself.

Hwitaek flushes a little and stares too pointedly at his wristwatch. “Would you look at that?” he says loudly, voice dripping in false surprise. “I need to go make sure Yanan’s not destroying the coffee machine.”

The Chinese man doesn’t even _drink_ coffee.

“Hey - Hwitaek - what the hell, Hwitaek!” Changgu shouts after his retreating back. The older man makes no indication that he hears him.

He lets out an agitated sigh and sits up straight, ignoring how the room tilts alarmingly. Hongseok’s still one foot in the room, the other out, staring at him with something akin to pity with that curious look in his eyes.

“What do you want?” Changgu asks him, too tired to sound harsh.

“Why must you assume I want something?”

“Why else would you come to see me?”

“Why do you hate me?”

Changgu freezes at that, the hands on his temples pausing. He hadn’t expected that, hadn’t expected that at all. He cracks on eye open, observes Hongseok.

The photographer’s fully inside the room now, arms crossed over his chest, expression only a little softer, more innocent than Changgu’s ever seen it. He looks so genuine, like he truly doesn’t understand. Changgu’s throat feels dry, mouth filled with sand.

“I - I don’t,” he sputters, and that’s a lie. Hongseok knows it.

“You’re not the only person who talks to Yanan around here,” Hongseok says, which is a direct translation to _Yanan is an angel faced demon who can no longer be trusted as the recipient of Changgu’s long venting sessions_. 

“I-”

“Have I done anything wrong? Have I even spoken to you properly, before yesterday?”

Changgu inhales, exhales, his shoulders slumping in defeat. He feels Hongseok’s heavy gaze on him, weighing him down. His throat’s tight and he can’t seem to form words.

Why _does_ he hate Hongseok? He’s compiled a mental list of many things in his head, but none of them come to mind in the present moment. All he knows is that Yang Hongseok strode into the office two and a half weeks ago with his arms full of boxes, biceps flexing under his shirt sleeves, face coated with sweat, and Changgu couldn’t stand him from the get go. He’d spent the subsequent time doing a little digging (or a lot of digging, but Yanan was too absorbed in his dramas to bother looking at his screen) through Hongseok’s background, and with each achievement staring him down, the list so long it’d taken him a solid minute to wrap his head around it, flames burned in his chest.

It had started with some photography contests when Hongseok was in middle school, then high school, Changgu digging up photos of him with truly regretful hair and crooked-teeth smiles, before puberty turned him tall and broad, holding certificates and medals and shaking hands with professionals in the field, their expressions of utter amazement at what a teenager could accomplish.

He’d found Hongseok’s university, the long list of accomplishments in so many departments. Star athlete. Trilingual genius. Photos that awed people who held cameras in their hands more often than they didn’t. The son of a business power couple, with his own pathway of his passion and how hard he fought to pursue it, how many burdens he endured to do something he loved.

Changgu had slammed his laptop shut, the noise enough to make even Hyojong glance over at him with a warning look before returning to whatever the hell he does during work hours. It’s not like Changgu would know.

In that moment his fists had been curled, lip caught between his teeth as he tried to steady his breathing. The fire in his chest had been painful, as if the heat had seared his lungs charcoal-black and turned his insides to ashes. 

Changgu _hates_ Hongseok.

“I get it,” Hongseok says quietly. “You don’t have to like me. I just thought - you know what, nevermind. I only came by to drop off these.”

In his hands are the mugshots of Shinwon that Changgu had been carrying when the door turned his face to pulp. They’re a little wrinkled, but the intense colour is still there, starkly contrasting the hazel surface of the coffee table Hongseok sets them on. Changgu can’t take his eyes off them.

There’s heavy silence, tense silence, and it’s awful. It starts with the initial shock of Hongseok’s words, then the pain in the air sets in, until it’s too insistent to ignore, much like a bruise. It morphs from its initial redness to the blood vessels breaking under the skin, deep hues of plum blossoming, the throbbing that follows.

Changgu doesn’t have an ice pack to put on this wound.

In this moment, he wishes he did, if only to press the frostiness to burning skin, until it stung and smarted and he couldn’t feel anything anymore, just the paper towel getting damp under his red-tipped fingers from the condensation.

“They’re so ugly,” he mutters, because he’s a weakling that turn to insults when he’s scared. “Why is the entire colour scheme, you know - like that?” He gestures faintly at the papers.

Hongseok’s eyes follow his hands. “I told Hyunggu to use a lighter colour. I thought it would look nice with your work, you know, but I expected some blush pink, ivory whites maybe, and not, well, _that_.”

“What do you know about colours?”

“Not much,” is Hongseok’s answer, and it catches Changgu off-guard. Hongseok has never acted like he’s in the wrong, much less entirely unknowledgable. He raises his head to look at Hongseok, standing there dragging his fingers through frazzled grey hair and giving Changgu an entirely open, honest look.

“I don’t know much about colours - I don’t know anything at all, actually,” Hongseok chuckles. “I majored in business, what do I know about the colour wheel?”

Changgu sits up straight, his eyes wide. Nowhere on the sites had it mentioned that Hongseok had been a business major throughout his years in university, he’d just assumed that if the guy was so good at photography then that had to have been what he studied, right? 

“You’re telling me that you came in here and caused a big fuss about the colour of our front cover, without even knowing what complementary colours are.”

Hongseok shrugs. “I mean - it did sell, didn’t it? Hwitaek said -”

“Yes, but that’s not the _point_!” Changgu nearly shrieks, the noise making his head throb. “How do you even manage to do that without studying it at all?”

“I thought it looked nice?” he offers weakly.

“It was fuschia, Hongseok, you put fuschia with our autumn edition. Autumn is the time of crunchy dead leaves and biting cold breezes, of warm bitter coffee and chewy cinnamon cookies, of scarves and chunky knit sweaters. You put fuschia on the cover.”

Hongseok turns red, his cheeks matching the colour that he’d decided wasn’t good enough. “It was pretty! And eye-catching.”

“Eye-burning, more like.”

“I guess this is a bad time to ask if you’re all right with a second round of pretend dating?”

“ _What?!_ ”

Hongseok at least has the decency to look apologetic, fidgeting with his hands and avoiding Changgu’s eyes. Changgu thinks that if he wasn’t currently bound to the couch by sheer laziness (and the state of his face), he would have his hands around Hongseok’s neck right now. Unfortunately, the current situation is as it is, so he settles for trying to burn twin holes in Hongseok’s head.

“My parents want to meet you a second time,” he says. “In working conditions. Like, in the office.”

“They want to see my work?”

“More like they want to see _my_ work and where you currently fit into it.”

“This is supposed to be a relationship, why do you parents care about my work?”

“God, I don’t know, okay?” Hongseok throws his hands up in the air in a gesture of helplessness, looking beat. “They just asked if they could meet us.”

“If you haven’t realized, my face currently looks like tomato pulp. Aren’t they gonna ask?”

“Tell them you got jumped,” Hongseok suggests. 

“How the hell would your parents approve of you dating a guy who goes around getting mugged?”

“I’ll tell them you got mugged and I saved your dumbass,” Hongseok says with a small grin.

“That’s so emasculating,” Changgu snorts. “What am I, a damsel in despair?”

“I’m the knight,” Hongseok says. “You’re my pookie bear.”

“Leave.”

“What?”

“Leave. Now.” Changgu pulls out his phone and flicks through it to emphasize his words. Hongseok looks a little disappointed, almost, but he dismisses it.

“Are you at least going to do it?”

“Under two conditions,” Changgu says, looking up from his Instagram feed. “One, that I am _not_ your pookie bear. Two, that you leave at this very moment.”

Hongseok’s one foot out the door when he sticks his head back in. “Thank you, pookie bear!” he catcalls, and retreats, but not before Changgu can flip him off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im sorry this seems rushed thats cuz it was

**Author's Note:**

> please bear with me it will get better i (cannot) promise
> 
> anyways, find me on [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/dreamyeo)
> 
> comments and kudos! make! me! happy!


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